The streets are lifeless, empty, and dark.

The crowd of the usual tourists is gone. The traffic is flowing smoothly, like a river, with only a few cars on the road. The whole city is covered by black, silky darkness.

The only thing that's active is light.

Light is everywhere. It is shining in office buildings that are at least seven hundred feet tall. It's in crowded apartments, restaurants, and vehicles.

I am in the city that never sleeps. The city that has a beautiful skyline.

There are only a few visible stars in the sky. The lights are too bright and overpowering. It is magical. It's nothing like what I am used to.

It's nothing like Smallview.

It is quiet. The only sounds I can hear are cars driving over puddles of water. Splash. Splash. Splash.

I make the same sounds with every step I take. I splash my mustard-yellow rubber boots in the dark pools of water.

The rain keeps drizzling. I notice the water droplets collected on the hood of my raincoat, like ants in cracks of concrete.

The strong smell of gasoline from the cars floats to my nose, along with the smell of food from the busy restaurants.

An Italian restaurant, a bakery filled with all kinds of desserts, and a cart full of Mexican food are next to each other. Each of them is filled with dozens and dozens of people. They're packed in together like a playoff game at Yankee Stadium.

Standing on my tiptoes, I read the name of a small pastry shop. It is the same size as a closet.

“Minnie’s Treats,” I whisper to myself.

A young couple chats over a piece of custard pie and coffee. The tip of the woman’s fork is coated with her glossy red lipstick.

Next to them sits an old lady with curled, cream-colored hair. She has a stunning rose quartz ring on her finger.

Sitting in front of the window is a middle-aged man. He is so attached to his phone that he has not even looked at the cup of tea that sits on his table. The hot Earl Grey tea makes steam float out of the brown mug.

The pastel colors of the pastry shop stand out on the street. Maybe this street is not so lifeless, after all.

I keep walking down the street. I run my frozen, numb fingers through my damp hair.

There are two girls behind me. They're about my age. One of them is wearing an outfit like mine: black leggings, yellow boots, and a raincoat. The other girl wears a long-sleeved beige dress with wool tights and chunky, black ankle boots.

Each whisper between them is followed by laughter. They soon pass by me. One of the girls quickly looks back at me. She gives me a small, gentle smile. I smile back.

I do not miss Smallview.

The mood here is like no other.  I am completely happy. For once in a long time, I feel free.

Smallview makes me feel like a mummy wrapped in linen cloth. The town masks parts of me, hiding who I truly am. Smallview covers me with a thick, bulky cast. But here, the cast is finally being taken off.

Now, I have myself back. I am no longer held back.

I pass by different bars, clubs, coffee shops, and restaurants, but I am not drawn to any of them. Walking on the street and being able to watch everything is perfect. In fact, it is the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced.

With each step toward the end of the street, I hear my breathing. The soft, low breaths soon become heavy as I start walking faster.

It is starting to rain harder. The small droplets of water on my raincoat have turned into puddles. Tucking my hands into the pockets of my raincoat, I start running. The top of my head gets showered with water like grass when sprinklers are turned on.

The rain starts pouring down. The drops from the sky hit even harder. The same sound is repeated, like the thumping of a heartbeat.

The droplets hit the roofs of cars. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sky is covering the city in rain.

Around the corner is a cute coffeehouse. It has yellow walls and a coffee mug rack that covers most of the back wall. The paint is faded. I can tell right away that this shop has been here much longer than me.

There is no one else there except one woman. She is standing behind the counter, texting someone on her phone. I take one more step toward the table by the window.

The woman quickly raises her head. Her ice-cold, blue eyes look right into my hazelnut-brown ones. Her hawk eyes do not match her kind, welcoming attitude.

“Hey there, honey. Is there anything I can get for you?” she asks.

“Yes, please. I’ll have a large hot coffee,” I answer.

“Of course! I’ll get it right to you, but for now, please sit down at a table," she says.

I nod and walk toward the table I had my eye on earlier. Taking a seat and crossing my legs, I wait for my coffee.

The sweet woman brings me my coffee in seconds.

She pulls her blonde hair behind her ears. “Would you like any sugar or cream?” she asks

“No, thank you. I like it black,” I answer.

As I pick up the mug, I look straight at the glass window in front of me. I stare at the reflection of myself. I study my posture. I like this new person I see in the glass. I like everything about her.

Finally, I feel at home.

Snap.

It all goes dark. Black.

Everything is gone. The woman, the table, the chairs, my coffee, my reflection.

I open my eyes to a room with a furry, turquoise rug and a white desk with a stack of books. There are posters of my favorite cities on the walls: New York, Paris, Las Vegas, Malibu, and New Orleans.

It is my room. My room in Smallview.

Frustration fills me. Burying my head under the covers of my bed, I wait for my alarm to go off.

I hoped it would be hours. It was only a few seconds.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

People always tell me I look exactly like my mom, Diana.

We both have short, light brown hair. It matches the color of our almond-shaped eyes. We both have a button nose and full, light pink lips.

But I want the comparison to stop there. She is stuck, trapped. I never want to be in that position.

Before leaving my room, I take one more look around. I look at the posters. I close my eyes, imagining that I am in one of those magical cities.

“All right, let’s do this,” I mumble to myself.

After slipping into my striped grey-and-white sneakers, I walk downstairs. I find my dad eating breakfast. On his plate are two scrambled eggs, a piece of toast, and a few slices of bacon.

He does not even notice I'm there.

“Hey, Dad. Where’s Mom?” I ask.

He keeps looking at his phone.

He answers in an impatient tone, “I think she’s with Celeste.”

“Okay, thanks. I have to go,” I say.

Standing still like a statue, I wait for a goodbye. A few seconds go by. Dad has not said anything. Finally, after waiting a bit more, I give up.

I walk quickly to the kitchen counter to grab a few cookies from the jar. The cookie jar is the last of my relationship with Dad. Ever since I was a toddler, he has filled it with cookies.

Dad put in oatmeal raisin cookies today. It is a change from the chocolate chip I usually find.

I leave the house with breakfast to go: a strawberry-flavored yogurt cup, a couple of cookies, and a chocolate croissant that Celeste made a couple of days ago.

The croissant tastes slightly stale. But the flavor of butter with dark chocolate melts in my mouth like snow on fire.

A voice nearby catches my attention.

“Leila! Leila, come here!”

I turn around to see Celeste wearing hot pink gardening gloves. She has a black trowel in her right hand. Her long, blonde hair looks nice with her light blue sweater.

There is a mound of dirt next to a row of colorful roses. It looks like a groundhog spent all night digging. The grass is a stunning green, the color of parsley.

Looking to the side, I stare at my house’s lawn.

The grass is dying. Light green and yellow patches cover the whole lawn. The blades of grass are thin, frayed, and torn. It's the opposite of Celeste’s.

Every morning, Mom has coffee and chats with Celeste while she gardens. The garden is Celeste’s escape, her getaway.

Mom is sitting in a rocking chair on the patio. With her shoulders rolled back and posture straight, she keeps laughing and talking. She hasn't noticed me.

“Uh, Diana. Look who’s here,” Celeste says. She points her finger at me.

“Leila, good! Do you want to come sit?” Mom asks.

“No, thanks. I have to get to school early for a group project,” I answer.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” Mom says.

I smile and nod. “Sounds good. Bye, Mom,” I say.

Smallview High School is a few blocks away. It's right next to Dad’s restaurant, The Bun Corner.

As I walk toward the end of the street, I hear the sweet sounds of Mom’s giggles. She is the happiest I have ever seen her. She always is, with Celeste.

It is only with Celeste that she sits tall and keeps her head up. It is only with Celeste that she feels real and human. Inside the house, she shrivels like she is a piece of crumpled paper about to be thrown away in a trashcan.

Unfortunately, this break from reality is short. Soon, regret will begin eating away at her again, like termites in wood.

I wish this escape was permanent. I wish a lot of things could change.

Dad is not any better than Mom. To Smallview, he is "the hot dog king." He owns the most popular and successful restaurant in the whole town. I only wish he was the same person at home.

I breathe deeply in and out. I drop my hands to my sides. I close my eyes. My feet keep moving, but my body feels like it is floating on cool, refreshing water.

Fluttering my eyes open, I see everything I want to see. I am in a place where I want to be.

The sound of cars driving and the footsteps of tourists and locals make a song. It's like the songs played in the Palais Garnier Opera House.

Leaves twirl on the street like ballerinas in a dance performance. Their apricot-orange and butterscotch-yellow colors stand out on the charcoal-black ground. With each step I take, the street brightens more and more.

My slow walking turns into a jog. Finally, I see it.

I am captured by its golden-yellow color. The Eiffel Tower looks like it is covered in sparkles and glitter. The shining beacon is a powerful nightlight for the entire city.

I do not blink for what seems like a lifetime. I can't take my eyes off of the tower. It does not look like what I have seen in pictures. Standing in front of it, I get to admire every detail.

Trying to take in all one thousand feet of it, I raise my head. I wish I could stand at the very top. I would see everything: the restaurants, shops, and the tiny, black dots that are people. The slight breeze would wrap around my body, the chill blowing over me.

I look down. The picture of looking over the entire city from the tip of the tower is being erased from my mind.

Snap.

It all goes dark. Black.

My head is still facing down, but the glow from the tower has disappeared. Now, “Smallview High School” are the words I see. They're written on the concrete in red and blue letters along with our mascot, an eagle.

A crowd of people walks through the glass doors with silver handles. I stand still, not moving.

I notice the familiar smell of flowery perfume. Right away, I know Maya is nearby.

I look in the opposite direction, avoiding any eye contact. I cannot face her. I cannot face this school.

As I take a couple of steps forward, I think of the posters in my room. Knowing they will be in my room when I go back home is calming.

In a few hours, I will be able to close my eyes and go into a different world. It is the push I need to get through the day ahead of me.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

In Smallview, most people are wrapped in their cozy comforters. They're ready to close their eyes and doze off by 9:00 pm.

It is the complete opposite here.

Neon lights and signs of all colors make the streets feel like a nightclub. Their orange-red, green, and pink colors make a disco ball for everyone to dance under.

Walking through this city is the same as walking on the red carpet. You feel like you are the most important person in the world. Here, there is a spotlight on me. It is a nice feeling, one I have never experienced before.

People coming out of casinos are dressed formally. Most women wear long evening dresses and black, shimmering high heels. The men are dressed in white shirts, black dinner jackets, bow ties, and leather shoes. They look classy, put-together, and neat.

Other people wear yellow shirts with flamingos and palm trees on them, along with athletic shorts and fisherman sandals. They look like they are getting off of an airplane in Hawaii or Florida. Like they're ready to lounge by the pool while sipping on an umbrella-topped drink.

I pass by the lines for clubs and restaurants. They are as long as the lines at clothing stores on Black Friday.

Across the street is a place called Dinner in the Clouds. Its red sign above the door is written in cursive. A couple and two women in their twenties wait outside to be let in.

After fixing my untied shoelace, I cross the street. I go to stand behind the middle-aged couple.

The wife whispers in her husband’s ear. It reminds me of the telephone game I played with my friends when I was much younger.

The husband brings his wife closer to him. He puts his arm around her shoulder. He kisses her.

The woman giggles and kisses him on his cheek. It smears her sparkling pink lipstick on him. He is too happy to notice.

“Miss, you can come in now,” an employee says.

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

The restaurant has a bar and a floor for dancing. I quietly sneak to the back of the room, taking a seat at a booth.

In a few moments, a waiter comes to my table.

“Miss, is there a drink I can get you?” he asks.

“I’ll have a Shirley Temple, thank you," I say.

The music sounds like the pop songs I used to listen to in elementary school. I would grab my purple hairbrush, stand on top of my bed, and start singing like I was Taylor Swift at a concert.

I deeply miss those days. Those days of innocence.

Soon, my drink is served. The grenadine and the Sprite have not mixed yet. The drink looks like a lava lamp.

“I put in three cherries instead of two,” the waiter says.

I laugh and smile. He does the same.

After mixing my drink, I take a small sip. The bubbles and fruity flavor burst in my mouth. I put a cherry in my mouth. The sweet and sugary taste stays in my mouth even after I swallow.

There is only one woman on the dance floor. Her dark brown hair moves with her, swaying from side to side. She does not care if everyone else is staring at her. She is just dancing. Just enjoying her life and ignoring judgment from others.

I wish I was like her.

As soon as I finish my drink, I wave goodbye to the waiter. I walk out the door and into the chilly night air.

Not having anyplace in mind, I walk aimlessly down the street. I look through the windows of stores.

There is one store named Fuller’s Threads. A few items are being displayed in the window. I can see a peach-colored handbag with daisies printed all over, a straw hat with a brown bow, and a beige pair of Cuban heels. The bright green sign reads, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

Next to Fuller’s Threads is a thrift store. Inside, it looks like a teenager’s messy room. Clothes are scattered everywhere, with no sections to separate the different types of clothing.

The rest of the stores are pitch black. It is impossible to see anything.

In a few minutes, I reach the end of the street. I stop next to a bench. I decide to take a seat, since I have nowhere else to go.

I hear the electronic music from the clubs a few blocks over. I smell burgers and fries from a fast-food restaurant nearby. With my legs crossed and my head resting against the back of the bench, I look at the sky. It looks so blank and empty.

I never want to leave this spot.

Snap.

It all goes dark. Black.

The chatter of Mom and Celeste downstairs reaches my room.

“Leila! Celeste is here. Come say hello, please,” Mom says.

Before I open my eyes, I take a deep breath. I try to remember that soon, I will be able to go back.

“Coming, Mom!” I answer, with a little bit of attitude.

From the smudge of dirt on Celeste’s left cheek and the stains of mud on her pants, I can tell that she has been gardening for hours. Mom is wearing the same outfit she wore yesterday: a grey, long-sleeved shirt and black sweatpants.

“How are you, dear?” Celeste asks.

“A little tired, but I’m fine. How are you?” I ask.

“Well, I’m actually fantastic," Celeste says. "I spent the whole morning outside.”

I have never understood why Celeste gardens all the time. Does she love having dirty hands? Is she bored?

“Are you hungry? Celeste brought turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches,” Mom says.

“Not really, but I do want a snack,” I say.

I walk over to the counter, to the cookie jar.

It is empty.

I pinch myself on the skin between my thumb and index finger to stop myself from crying. The pain distracts me for a couple of moments. Soon, my eyes are covered with a shining layer of tears, but I do not blink.

I will not cry in front of Mom and Celeste. I do not have the energy to explain myself.

“Mom, do you know if Dad’s here?” I ask.

“No, he’s not," she says. "He’s at work, as usual. But you can hang out with us. Why don’t you take a seat on the couch?"

I walk over to the sofa. I sink into the cushion like I am in quicksand.

Why would Dad not fill the jar? Did he forget?

The coffee table is covered in crumpled paper. Curiously, I open one of them up. I try not to make any noise for Mom to hear.

“Smallview Times Application” is printed at the top of the page.

Mom has wanted to be a journalist since she was my age, but she got pregnant with me toward the end of college. Her plan fell apart. She fell apart, too.

Since then, she has not been able to pick herself back up again.